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He visualized Kendra on top of him in the bed. He could almost feel her straddling his hips as she lowered herself onto his shaft. In his mind’s eye, he reached for her pretty breasts, capturing the plump nipples between thumbs and forefingers. He twisted until she drew in a sharp breath. The grimace of pain on her face was belied by the rush of moisture in her hot, tight cunt.
He groaned as he stroked and pumped his shaft, the phantom Kendra grinding and shuddering over him, her breathy cries fueling his lust. He came fast in a series of unsatisfactory spurts over his belly. Reaching for a tissue, he wiped away the jism, dropped the Kleenex over the side of the bed and rolled to his side. Closing his eyes, he let sleep drag him down into its arms.
Dylan made sure the next morning that his schedule would be clear during Kendra’s break in the late afternoon. He got to the beach early, his surfboard under his arm. He waved to Josh, who sat up high in his lifeguard chair a little farther down the beach. Dylan had become friendly with Josh when he’d first arrived on the island. Josh came in each morning on the ferry. He claimed to be fascinated with the BDSM scene, but so far had declined Dylan’s invitations to attend a dungeon party.
Dylan also recognized several of the guests lolling on towels and clustered around the tiki bar. A couple of them waved to him in apparent invitation. He waved back but headed in the opposite direction, seeking out a solitary umbrella farther down the beach.
He considered hitting the waves, but decided it would be better to wait until Kendra appeared, as she’d expressed an interest in trying out the board. He opened the small cooler he’d brought along and popped the top on a cold can of Coke Zero. He let his mind drift as he sipped the soda and stared out at the vast ocean, mesmerized as he always was by the water.
After a while, he glanced at his Apple watch, the best water-resistant surfing watch he’d ever owned, with its surf forecast and the Dawn Patrol GPS tracking app. Kendra was later than she’d been the day before. Was she still coming?
He twisted his head to survey the beach in case he’d somehow missed her. As if his gaze had summoned her, Kendra stepped out from the sliding glass doors of one of the slave quarter rooms. Unlike the bikini of yesterday, she wore a dark blue one-piece Speedo cut high above the hips, a sensible choice if they were going out on the board.
He raised his hand in a wave, his heart lifting. He tried but was unable to wipe off his ridiculous, wide grin as she approached.
He got to his feet as she reached him. “There you are.” He held out his arms, enfolding her in them. He pressed his nose in her hair a moment, inhaling the lavender scent of her shampoo. He desperately wanted to kiss her, but wasn’t quite sure where they stood after the rather abrupt ending to their scene the night before.
His cock had no such qualms. It instantly hardened in his swim trunks as he held her. He forced himself to pull away before his erection became too obvious.
Kendra removed a rolled beach towel from her tote and unfurled it next to him under the umbrella. As they both sat down, she said, “Sorry I was so late. We had a minor disaster. One of my vanilla cakes developed a sink-hole in the center. I had to whip up a lemon curd to fill it. It actually came out pretty good. I still have a couple of hours to relax before I need to report back to the kitchen.”
Dylan opened his cooler and offered Kendra a can of soda, which she accepted with thanks. As he watched her take her first sip, he said, “I thought pastry chefs worked in the mornings and had the evenings off. Seems like they’re working you awfully hard, no?”
Kendra shrugged. “That’s life in a professional kitchen. You want to do something with fewer hours, be a brain surgeon,” she quipped with a grin. “They’re still short-staffed in the kitchens right now, and I’m happy to step up during the dinner prep to help get things plated. And then I meet with Henry to plan out the next day’s menu. Seriously, this gig is light compared to a typical kitchen. Chefs routinely work anywhere from fifty to eighty hours a week.”
She took another sip of her soda. “But enough boring kitchen talk. I’m excited to get my first surfing lesson.”
“Okay, sweet,” Dylan said. “Though I have to warn you, surfing isn’t something you can just pick up like learning to ride a bike or something. Nobody ever jumped on a surfboard for the first time and snagged a barreling overhead wave. Just like any other sport, you need to put in some time and effort to get anywhere. For today, I think we’ll get you on your stomach on the board so you can get a sense of what it feels like.”
